


We Are

by lexstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:45:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1818985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexstiel/pseuds/lexstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a Wincest fan fiction set in the Civil War era. Dean and Sam Winchester are separated early in life, but have their grand reunion in the middle of the war - on different sides. Despite Sam Wesson fighting for the Union, despite Dean Smith being a Confederate soldier, the two young men unite when they learn they have a common profession - hunting the supernatural, and a common goal - a demon named Azazel is responsible for their country tearing itself apart, and both have set out to end him before he succeeds.</p>
<p>Painfully unaware that they are brothers, painfully aware that even being homosexual is unacceptable, Sam and Dean fall in love. They find out later that they share more than love - they share a last name and the blood coursing through their veins.</p>
<p>Does that stop them? Or is it impossible to stick your foot in the door when you've come this far, loved this much?</p>
<p>Will they carry their love to their graves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm undecided on how much descriptive writing I will put into this, but smut and/or graphic depictions of violence are certainly a possibility.
> 
> I also am unaware of how long this will be, so I guess I'll just hang tight right with you guys and wait to find out.

January 24th, 1841: Dean Winchester is born.

May 2nd, 1845: Sam Winchester is born.

November 2nd, 1845: Mary Winchester dies.

December 24th, 1845: John Winchester dumps his young sons at an orphanage and runs, hauls ass off to Lord-Almighty-knows-where.

On January 29th, 1847, Dean Winchester escapes the orphanage with his baby brother in his arms. It's a relatively cold night somewhere in Kansas, and despite being only six years old, Dean gets the self-sacrificial idea to strip his tiny coat and tuck it around Sam, keeping his little brother warm. They hide for several days, but the people from the orphanage never bother to search for the two missing boys.

When a kind young woman finds them sleeping behind her outhouse - Sam curled up on the soft soil, Dean wrapped protectively around the toddler - four days later, she immediately brings them inside, where she and her gentle husband lavish care and love on them. They know exactly where these two starved, neglected boys are running from, have heard plenty of tales about the "haven" for abandoned and orphaned children two towns over. On the second day with the Samsons, Dean opens up and begrudgingly recounts every horror of that place - that foul, disgusting, animalistic farm for children, Mrs. Samson finds herself thinking with more anger than she has ever felt before - and eventually lapses into an uneasy silence.

Even at six years old, Dean Winchester is cold, calculating, unfathomable. A tiny tin soldier, blank and stationary until he has someone to paint him up and move him around to give him some semblance of life.

The Samsons take Sam and Dean in and begin to raise them as their own children. The light that disappeared from Dean's eyes two years ago, when John dropped him and Sam without so much as a word of goodbye, is finally beginning to spark again. He is finally beginning to be able to focus on things that aren't his little brother, finally beginning to see the beauty in little things like the flowers Mrs. Samson so meticulously cares for.

When you have some sort of sadistic, evil presence following you everywhere you go, however, lasting happiness isn't an option. 

On Christmas eve of 1847, Dean wakes up in the middle of the night to fetch his brother a glass of water. As he creeps past the Samsons' bedroom, he glances casually past the open door.

Dean does a double take.

That door should not be open, because the Samsons never leave their door open at night. Dean flashes back to a time, several months ago, when Mr. Samson kindly explained the house rules to their new boys ("Our door stays shut at night for privacy, but if you ever need a thing, don't you hesitate to knock"). And there most definitely should not be a shadowed figure leaning over the sleeping bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Samson, because - because -

Again, Dean is thrown back in time, but farther now.

He is snuggled tight in his bed, just on the edge of slumber, when he hears a muffled noise. He strains his young ears to recognize the source of the sound. It's Mother, and she sounds frightened. Dean slips his bare feet out of bed and tiptoes down the hall to peer into his parents' bedroom. A man, whose features are obscured by the darkness, is hunched over a small, balled-up shape in the bed, whispering something not discernable from where Dean is standing, petrified, listening to his mother's pleading and soft sobbing. He knows it isn't Father because Father is never home on Saturday nights. Even though Mother makes excuses that Dean believes now, he comes to realize later in life that those Saturday nights were always spent at the saloon with a crowd of rowdy, rough men drinking and laughing and drinking and fighting and drinking.

Finally, remembering his manners (his father's exasperated "Dean, how many times must I tell you to knock before you just walk in as though you own the damn place?" ringing in his ears) and raps twice on the wooden door that stands ajar.

He remembers in striking detail how the man slowly raises his head and, although Dean still can't see his eyes, he somehow just knows that the man is staring directly into Dean's own eyes. And, although Dean is only four years old, there is no mistaking the way the man's voice alone chills the very air when he steps forward and exclaims cheerfully, "Dean! I've been waiting to meet you!" Dean is frozen in spot, panic-stricken by the pure evil in this scary man's voice, and how does he know Dean's name, and what is he doing there, and -?

Before Dean can bring himself to utter more than a polite - always polite, Father raised him to be respectful of his elders and damn it son, you'd better remember that - "sir," Mary has flown off the bed to stand protectively beside Dean. Dean notices she's clutching at baby Sam like she's scared he'll fall from her arms if she doesn't keep him pressed tightly against her chest.

"You leave my children alone, you son of a bitch." The words Mary snarls out now are no longer tinged with the weak despair Dean heard in her voice earlier. He chances a glance upwards and sees his mother's beautiful features contorted into rage, pure rage, and Dean is scared of Mary for the first time in his life. But then her hand drops to his shoulder, rubs reassuringly, and he isn't frightened anymore because this is the woman who still sings him to sleep sometimes, when Dean wakes in a cold sweat from a nightmare; this is the woman who bakes him pies and gives him milk and cookies any chance she can get without Father yelling at her not to "soften the boy up, because he needs to be strong and fit so he can go to work in the fields in a few years".

The stranger walks slowly and purposefully toward the trio while Dean is studying his mother's face, and now Dean can feel his mother beginning to tremble, so he rests his little hand reassuringly on Mother's hip to let her know that it's going to be fine, just fine, he loves her a lot and everything will be okay, and then -

His hand is patting at empty air and suddenly his beloved mother is in the shadowy man's grasp, clutching feebly with one hand at the arm tightening around her throat while using her other hand to thrust  a bundle of cloth at Dean - Sam, it's Sam, his baby brother, his perfect little brother with the pretty eyes just like Mother's and the sweet, toothless smile that he always seems to forget how to make when Father is stomping around the house and swearing at Dean and Mother and driving his fists into the walls - and then her fierce demeanor crumbles and she takes a shuddering, gasping breath.

"Please," she manages, "please, not my baby boys. Please." She's begging the stranger not to do something now, begging him to leave her babies alone (what was he going to do to Dean and Sam, why was Mother so scared and sad?) and then the man laughs, a cold, hard, bitter laugh.

"Happens every time," the man says in a jolly tone, then he snaps Mother's neck.

Dean is jerked back into the present with the crack of his mother's bones reverberating in his ears and before he realizes what he's doing, he's barging into the Samsons' bedroom. He picks up a random blunt object from the chest of drawers just inside the door and charges forward with every intent of killing this man - he's only six years old and he's ready to kill for the family he lost and the family he found in replacement - but suddenly, Dean staggers to a forced halt. He feels as though he has run straight into a solid wall and despite his bruising attempts to knock down this scary, invisible barrier, his efforts are completely futile.

"Hello, again, Dean." The man beside the bed greets him in the same cheerful manner he did when Dean was four and this man killed his mother, his precious mother, and Dean snaps. He sobs and screams and pounds against the unseen blockage between him and the closest thing to parents and a happy family he's gotten in two years. Sam comes pattering into the room and hugs Dean from behind and babbles nonsense that normally softens his big brother up but this time, this time it just enrages Dean further.

"You killed my mother! You, you, y-you killed Mother right in front of me and now you're killing these people in front of me a-and I'm going to kill you too! I swear it! On everything, I swear on the Holy Bible that I will kill you, no matter how long it takes me or what it costs." And Dean may be only six years old, but he means every damn word that comes pouring from his mouth in this fit of blind rage that most grown men would flinch away from.

And the bastard just smiles at Dean before he reaches down with both hands and simultaneously rips the hearts of Dean's heroes, his saviors, his - his surrogate parents, out of their chests.

Dean may only be six years old, but he's smart enough to recognize that the yellow gleam in the man's eyes as he winks, turns, and disappears is not simply his imagination.


	2. Chapter 2

They are dancing, a crimson, heated waltz.

Blue and gray cloth uniforms are tinged with red as the battle rages around the tired soldiers - the ones left standing, that is. Dean Smith crouches low in the trench, catching his breath and shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He cannot remember the last time he slept, and his weariness is beginning to take its toll after nearly two full days of nonstop combat.

It is December sixteenth, 1864, in Nashville, Tennessee. Rebel forces were ambushed in their own trenches the previous day by Union General George Thomas. The armies are still clashing, and although the Confederates are making a valiant stand, the casualties are mounting. Dean has watched almost all of his friends and fellow soldiers fall on this field, fall and never get back to their feet. He knows the rebels have no chance of winning this battle, but Dean is here with a different purpose, anyway.

As he carefully hoists himself over the the ledge of the trench and climbs over, he scans the field. This is his battlefield ritual, searching every pair of eyes, Union and Confederate, for that tell-tale glint of yellow. A year and a half into the service and Dean still has not had any new leads on the demon, and even though he doubts he will meet Azazel in the midst of the action, he has not given up hope that he will find this demon and end him.

Seeing nothing indicative of demonic presence, as usual, Dean brings himself to a standing position and rejoins the battle. He loads his musket as quickly as he can with hands trembling from exhaustion and aims carelessly, firing at a blue-clad Union soldier fifty feet away. For a moment he watches the man fall, blood blooming across his chest in dark contrast to the blue, then Dean sprints for cover in the trees nearby.

Expanding his senses, Dean observes the wooded area unfolding before him. He runs deeper into dense vegetation, seeking shelter and a chance to regain his breath while he plans out his next move. Dean chooses an ivy-covered tree surrounded by bushes to hide behind, and reloads his musket wearily. Suddenly, a fire flares up in his peripheral vision. Dean swivels and strains his eyes at the blaze, attempting to figure out what is going on.

Nearly as soon as the fire begins, it winks out. Dean runs his fingers through his hair in confusion, starting toward the site he has just staked out. He breaks into a run again. Upon reaching the burnt patch of grass where the fire had previously flared up, Dean stares around, searching for a source. He sees nothing.

A twig cracking catches his attention and Dean straightens up, lifting his musket in case he is assailed by a Union soldier. Thick silence falls upon the area, sending Dean's heart into a loud, rapid, pounding rhythm. Minutes pass before a rustling of leaves sounds nearby, closer than before. Dean spins around in the direction of the disturbance, narrowing his eyes against the dim light of the forest he is in. He is beginning to curse his decision to enter the woods when he hears the sound of something heavy being dragged toward him. About fifteen feet away, still out of Dean's limited visibility, the noise comes to an abrupt halt. Once more, silence envelops Dean's surroundings. He creeps toward the place where the sounds had stopped and peers around. Nothing.

A slight scraping on the dirt and leaves by Dean's feet causes him to curse and leap back, pointing his gun downward. The sight that meets him surprises him: a young, floppy-haired Union soldier, lying below, cradling one arm in the other and quietly gasping for breath. Dean kneels beside the man and checks his wounds. He finds a badly broken left arm, a nasty bullet wound in the chest just below his left rib cage, and what appears to be an old, infected knife-infected gash in his right leg. Dean brushes sweaty hair out of the man's eyes and searches his face. Something about him is familiar to Dean; though he knows his duty is to kill this wounded soldier and all men on his side, Dean feels an unexpected surge of protectiveness course through his veins. The unexplained fire from earlier has been completely driven from his mind after this turn of events.

The young man curses softly and glares up at Dean. "Why have you not killed me already?"

Dean shakes his head in response. "I...I don't really know." When the fallen soldier pants an incredulous laugh, Dean rubs the back of his neck in sudden embarrassment. "I'm tellin' the honest-to-God truth. I really don't know why. I just know that you don't deserve to die." He places a trembling hand - why is his hand trembling? - on the man's forehead, noting the heat radiating from his flushed face. The infection seems to have taken hold in his body.

"They left me." The young soldier's eyes are half glazed, fixed somewhere behind Dean's shoulder. "I was hurt, I was dying and they - they simply left me there. All around me I saw Confederate men risking their lives for the sake of their wounded, yet my fellow men gave me no second thought. Well, except whoever dragged me here, but obviously he left, too."

Dean remains quiet, not knowing what to say to this dejected man. He is shocked to find that a boiling rage is slowly churning in his gut at this young man's plight. What kind of army deserts its own men? But Dean is also plagued by intense curiosity. Who brought this man straight to Dean, and why? He is snapped back into reality when the young man gives a shuddering, wheezing breath and speaks again.

"I suppose you are not going to kill me, so it seems an introduction is in order. My name is Sam Wesson." Sam extends a clammy hand up toward Dean, who grasps it firmly, thinking somewhere in the back of his mind that he should warm Sam's cold skin.

"My name is Dean Smith, and look at me sittin' here chatting with the enemy while war rages 'round us." Dean shakes his head and snorts.

Sam laughs - a sound resonating of inner joy that Dean somehow suspects should not be coming from a dying soldier. Then he sees the man's right hand flit down toward the bullet wound in his chest; laughing has stretched the skin open just enough to increase the flow of blood trickling from the hole. Dean gasps and Sam chuckles again - is he mad?

"I will be okay, Dean," he reassures softly. "Perhaps it is my time to pass on."

For some reason, the thought of Sam Wesson dying horrifies Dean and sends him into a fury. "You are not going to die, Sam." He carefully slides his hands under the wounded man's body and gently lifts him from the ground.

Sam furrows his eyebrows. "Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean is already to his feet and walking when the question arises.

"I'm takin' you to a hospital, Sammy. We're gonna fix you up. Hang in there, okay? It's gonna be alright."

A ghost of a smile passes across Sam's face. "'Sammy'?" he asks.

"What?" Dean looks down at the man in his arms in confusion.

"Did you just call me S-" the words turn into a sigh as Sam's eyes roll back into his head and his eyelids begin to drift shut. "Did you...ah...Did..." His eyes close completely and his breaths become shallower.

Dean speeds up his pace, fleeing the battlefield. He doesn't even stop to see if his fellow soldiers are watching him desert them with an unconscious Northern man draped in his arms. He finds an unattended horse, not even considering his sudden luck, and hauls himself and Sam into the saddle. Spurring the animal into a gallop, Dean steers into the nearest town, where he hopes a hospital is full of unbiased doctors prepared to treat wounded men, be they Union or Confederate.

As the land slides by them in a blur, Dean leans down and whispers in Sam's ear. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. It's gonna be okay."

He never noticed the flash of yellow eyes within the shrubbery in the forest, or the yellow gleam in the late-afternoon shadows near the lone horse he so conveniently found when he needed it most.

Back on the battlefield, the bloody waltz increases in intensity.


End file.
